


Sorry, not Sorry

by AphroditeB00w



Category: Original Work
Genre: Falling in love Online, Internet, M/M, One Shot, Original Characters - Freeform, short fic, you've got mail ha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditeB00w/pseuds/AphroditeB00w
Summary: A short fluffy fic about a single dad and his internet persona.Michael runs a sort of Agony Aunt advice service. The kind where you get exactly what you need; the honest truth. It's anonymous, and it works best that way. Then one day, he takes on a client with an unexpected real life identity...Note to self: do not drink and text.





	Sorry, not Sorry

Dear Amber034

I have something real to say. You ready?

Grow the fuck up.

Put on your big girl panties and make a black coffee and stop bitching.

Your job doesn’t suck. Your job is actually a really good one and in the current recession, you need to feel at least a measure of gratitude about that. What sucks is your attitude. The world doesn’t owe you happiness my sweetheart. You need to go out there and find your own.

Now I wasn’t serious about the black coffee, But I am serious about growing up. Being an adult is hard. It’s not supposed to be easy and happiness can sometimes be a luxury. But it’s not impossible to achieve. You need to decide what you want out of life, instant gratification or a future?

My advice: tick it out for six months. If you still feel miserable after that, time to start looking around. But use the time to at least learn some skills and give your CV some meat.

Sincerely

Oprah D

 

 

I’m not a therapist.

I’m not even a school counsellor.

To be honest, I don’t really care about the worlds problems. I just like to watch people. So I guess I just got good at deciphering things.

It started young, probably junior school. If some people were having some fight, the kind that only preschool girls can have which is to say it was literally over nothing. I would be a mediator, and I’d get them speaking again.

Not that I’d put that on my CV or anything.

Then in high school I just became that guy you know? People gravitated towards me, and spill their woes into my ear. I don’t think it’s because I’m gay, but because I’m just not judgemental. I mean, if you came up to me and told me you once stabbed a man to death in self-defence, I’d find that interesting but not necessarily off putting.

I was a sort of receptacle for peoples hard to say or keep secrets. Taking up Wiccan but your mom is conservative Christian? Tell Michael. Want to run away from home cos your father is beating you? Secretly dating your teacher? Parents getting divorced and can’t deal? Yup, tell Michael.

In high school, I was kind of everyone’s friend and no ones. It wasn’t that I didn’t fit in, I just didn’t care about status the same way everyone else did. So I didn’t really have friends, I had customers. I didn’t get paid, of course, unless you count secrets as currency. Which I don’t.

I did care though. I wanted to help people when they gave me their sad stories. It hurt like hell when they went and did the stupid thing anyway. Sleep with your best friend’s girl, cheat on the test, and go back to your shitty boyfriend. It killed me. I got hurt a lot.

It sort of carried on into adulthood. Roanne, my bestie, used to say people took advantage of me, and I knew he was right, but I liked being needed.

Then she and her husband Richard died, leaving me with a godchild. And well, I couldn’t be everyone’s anymore.

I went through a bitter phase then. I stopped caring about people. I wasn’t a bitch, but I was done with peoples sad stories. I had my own, after all. A new born kid at twenty two? I had just gotten into being at college, and all that had to change. Really, had very little time for other people’s drama. And if they tried to bring it to my door, I got very blunt. My priorities were me, and my little girl, Ada.

From then on, I became a different sort of confidant. I called people on their shit, and I really didn’t care if it made me unpopular. If people couldn’t handle me, I had enough to fill my life, I didn’t need to pander to folks who couldn’t take the truth.

Quite honestly, fuck ‘em. ‘Sorry, not sorry’, became my new motto.

When you have student debt, a teacher’s salary and a kid, you learn not to give a fuck about the little things. Or little people.

But it did earn me a reputation. So it sort of started like that.

A friend told a colleague of theirs about me, that I could give them some advice with their mess of a love life if they were prepared to hear the un-edited version. (I like to swear. It makes sense to me.)

So I give advice. It’s not my day job, but it supplements my measly teacher income. It’s all online, and I don’t take on anyone who hasn’t been referred to me by someone I have given explicit permission to.  I don’t have the time for a clientele, and honestly, it’s not like I even have a license for this sort of thing. But the people who come to me know that. 

I must be effective to some degree, I have a steady stream of clients. I keep it down to a three session maximum and only use chat programs, so no face to face. Writing it is better anyway: I can think things through and I don’t get involved. And it filters out the weirds and angry ones.

I don’t sugar coat. If you’re asking my advice, you’ll get my honest opinion. I’ll tell you if you’re being an asshole. But ill also tell you if I don’t know the answer. Sometimes, at the end of the day, someone just wants to know that it’s ok to be confused, and not know the right answer. I give sympathy where it’s needed, and a kick in the butt too.

Ada is tugging at my pants.

“Mikey, I want an Easter egg.” She says, frowning and serious.

I give my five year old daughter a raised eyebrow. “It’s not Easter, so that’s impossible.”

She thinks hard for a moment, then; “a lolly then.”

I squish my lips together. “Hmm, you had one on the weekend though.”

She tilts her head, going from the authentically serious child I know, to a faux winsome one in one smooth movement. “Please?”

I roll my eyes. “Did you clean you room?”

She frowns again and I nod my head once. “There’s your answer.”

She pouts but I ignore it. A deals a deal, and she’s old enough to clean her own damn room. I do relent after a second though.

“If you go clean it now, you can have one in your lunch tomorrow.”

She perks up and runs off to her room, all haste. So you see, imp not above bribery. Or above being emotionally blackmailed by my kid.

I finish making dinner. We eat, bathe, and I put her to bed by seven, and then I get started on some marking for school. After a couple of hours of that, I turn off the TV and go through my client list for any new emails. I spend another few hours doing that. Eventually, at midnight, I drag myself to bed.

This is my life.

 

-8-

Dearest Marigold 141

Honey, I told you not to go back to him. But you did and now this is what you’ve got. I’m not judging you; if you want to stay with him, because you love him, then that’s great, but the fact that he is married isn’t going to change any time soon. He told you this, I told you this. You can’t have it all on this one.

If you’re going to stay with him, then you need to accept that you’re always going to be second on his list, as his mistress. I don’t know him at all, so I can’t say he is an asshole, but you are the one who needs to decide how much you’re worth in this scenario. Because obviously, you feel like being his mistress demeans you as a person. And yet, you keep on going back to be his mistress.

Aint no one demeaning you but you honey. Putting it on him is unfair.

Well wishes and love,

Oprah D

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I click send and sigh. This was email number three for this one, and I am glad to be rid of it. I mean, I charge for my time, so I get paid for my service, but some people…I just hate the ones that don’t want to help themselves. Just keep on doing the same shit, again and again. It’s annoying and depressing.

‘Oprah D’ is my little pseudonym. It’s not very clever. The ‘Oprah’ part was a nickname. The ‘D’ is because I’m a guy.

Like I said, it’s not very clever. Stop judging me.

I stretch hard. It’s been a few hours of me sitting at the computer tonight. I try to keep my client list under twenty at most, otherwise I can’t keep up. My time gets munched and so does my patience.

My phone buzzes though, and I pick it up curiously. It’s a bit late to be calling, even if it’s a Saturday night. My friends know I don’t go out. Can’t party when you’re a single parent and all that.

I see its Delia. Hmmm.

Delia is a left over friend, as in even though high school is way behind me, somehow Delia and I have managed to stay in contact, somewhere between friends and acquaintances. We’re not really close, but we do coffee very now and then. Maybe if I didn’t have a kid, we would be better friends. But her lifestyle is one I can’t enjoy; she’s a socialite, loves parties and men and drinks and dancing until all hours.

She’s a fashion designer, so I guess its pretty cliché. I guess I admire her in a way; she’s a big girl. And yet, she thrives in an industry that punts stick figure people as perfect, and doesn’t give a shit if her pants looks like they’ve been painted on. She parties with the best of them, and kicks ass at her job.

But still, getting a call from her is a bit weird. I answer.

“I hope you’re not drunk.” I say first, moving to the kitchen so I don’t disturb Ada.

“Hey Michael, sweetie. “She replies sweetly. “I’m not drunk.”

“Oh-Kay.” I say, willing her to get to the point.

She clears her throat then, and I think she gets that it’s weird to call me so late. “You weren’t sleeping were you?”

“About to be.” I reply. “You ok though?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine.” she says, hurriedly. “I just wanted to call cos uh…”

I wait, though I’m still checking out the clock. Eleven PM. It’s past my bedtime. Like every other night of my life.

“You still doing that advice thing?” she asks. I can hear music in the background, and the sudden shout of voices, then nothing.

“Yeah?” I’m getting a bit impatient now. “Look, Delia, I’m kind of tired.”

“Yeah I know. Sorry. Just trying to be…delicate.”

I frown at the floor. Delia is delicate like a bull is delicate.

“That’s weird.” I say.

“I know, which is why I’m failing miserably.”

“Just spit it out, Delia.”

“Fine. I’m at a party. There are some pretty, sort, high up people here.”

I perk up, cos at least it sounds interesting. “Like who? Senators?”

“No no,” she hurries to correct me. “I mean like, bands, artists, actors, those kinds of people.”

I roll my eyes. Not interesting after all. “Uh huh. Ok.”

“And anyway, I was chatting to someone and one thing led to another…”

I sigh. “Delia, I’m not giving you advice. You never take it and just go do whatever you want anyway.”

She titches at me in annoyance. “It’s not for me, oh holy mother Theresa. It’s for the guy I was telling you about.”

“oh.” I say, “Ok.”

“I can’t tell you his name, but I told him I knew of someone who could help him, someone to talk to.”

“And you told him about my price, my rule-“

“About three messages, and no contact other than online, yes. It suits him. These kinds of people like to remain anonymous with this kind of thing, you know?”

 _Like me_ , I thought. “Yeah ok.”

“Ok?”

I rub my face. “Yeah. I’ve got some room on my virtual couch, so it’s ok. You can give him the address.”

“Cool.” She sounds pleased.

“Thanks for checking with me.” I say.

“I know you’re anal about that.” she replied derisively.

“Ok then Delia. See ya.” I tell her. I know she is eager to get back to her party.

“Sure, coffee next week?”

With Delia, it’s more likely to be next month, but whatever.

I cut the line, glad to slouch off to bed.

It’s not the first higher profile client vie helped. The rules stay the same though. It’s actually easier for everyone, since it’s all anonymous. I think if I actually knew who these people were, I’d be too intimidated to speak my mind. It’s why I stay anonymous too; who wants advice from a single, gay twenty seven year old teacher? Not very glamourous.

-8-

 It was a fairly common sort of problem, which was a sad comment on society.

Blackwhite07, my referred client, had written two days later. His marriage was failing after just under two years and he was unhappy all the time. Counselling hadn’t helped, and things were just on downward tilt that seemed to never end.

Dear blackwhite07,

I hope you can believe me when I say that I am sorry to read your letter. It sucks. It really does.

From the sounds of things you’ve tried everything you can think of, and are at the end of your rope. Being unhappy in your life is exhausting, because everything becomes a chore. The concept of being happy is so alien that you don’t even expect it anymore. Am I right?

Now, I’m not an advocate for divorce or marriage, respectively every situation has its own resolution, so I’m not going to tell you to leave her or get your shit together and fix things. To be honest, it sounds like, from the tone of your email, you’re looking for someone to validate how you feel. You’re tired, you’re sad, and you’re tired of being sad.

I am a firm believer that everyone on this planet deserves to be happy. Everyone. And sometimes in life, you take the course that ensures your happiness. And I mean the kind of happiness that’s long term, not an instant gratification. It’s selfish, but there is healthy selfishness and unhealthy selfishness. Either way, you are allowed to be selfish. Everyone is, as long as they are happy to deal with the consequences.

I guess what I’m saying is you need to choose whichever outcome you are ok with dealing with. There will be repercussions either way, but you should choose the one which ensures your own true happiness. Where that means more counselling, or time apart, or divorce or writing stupid love letters to each other until your hands cramps.

I hope this helps you, but write back if you need anything else. You have two more ‘sessions’ after all J

Love and light

Oprah D

I paused for a moment after clicking send. It seemed like most marriages weren’t what the participants thought they would be. If I have learned anything from years of listening to any break up stories, it’s that people expected too much. Or rather, they expected the unrealistic. Humans can only do so much you know?

Besides, love is love. It doesn’t have conditions. Otherwise, what’s the point?

 

-8-

I wasn’t too surprised not to hear from him again. A lot of people don’t respond after that first message. I don’t really mind anymore, I still get paid up front.

I was surprised though, when I heard from him a few months later.

I was up late again. And indulging myself with a glass of wine, which had, somewhere along the line turned into a bottle of wine.

Some people might say it’s sad to drink alone. I can honestly say that at this point, I didn’t really care. I had three glasses in me and I was feeling pretty mellow when I got the email.

Hi Oprah D

I realised today I never replied to your email. Just thought I would let you know things didn’t work out too great. The paperwork went through yesterday.

But your words were good. I needed to hear them, so thanks.

Regards

Blackwhite07

 

Under normal circumstances, I would have left it at that. But I was feeling kind of buzzed, in a happy warm way, Ada was sleeping over at her best friend’s house for the night, and Frankie was playing on the speakers. I rolled the wine glass against my cheek a few times while looking at the email before responding.

Dear Blackwhite07,

I am appreciative of your apology and sorry to hear that. Only because you sound sad though. If you sounded happy, I would be happy.

You ok?

Sincerely

Oprah D

 

I was paging randomly through Tumblr when I got a ping announcing a reply.

 

Dear Oprah D,

We, I guess I’m happier than I was before. Still sad though. Feel like a failure, and she likes to rub it in.  
so I guess I’m not ok, but maybe I’ll be ok at some point?

Regards

Blackwhite07

 

I typed a quick reply, careful to use spellcheck before sending. My movements were a little exaggerated cos I was trying to not be drunk while actually being drunk.

Dear Blackwhite 07

Unless you die within the next twenty four hours, you will be ok at some point. Life goes on, hearts heal. It can be hard to lose someone you love.

And it’s ok to be sad about it. And you didn’t fail, you’re just human. It will pass, you will move on and find someone new to kiss who doesn’t spend all your money of cheap leopard print bras.

 

Sincerely

Oprah D

 

A few minutes later;

 

Oprah D

I don’t know if I’m broken hearted, since to be honest, I don’t know if I actually loved her, really. I don’t know. Hindsight etc.…

How did you know about the leopard print bras? J

Thanks for telling me it’s ok to be sad.

I’ll go a drown my sorrows with some whiskey.

Sincerely

Balckwhite07

 

Some small voice in the back of my mind was telling me that, after four glasses of wine, I should really stop typing, but there was a much louder, wine soaked voice that said ‘fuck you, I’m a grown up and you’re not the boss of me.’

 

Dear blackwhite07

 

Whiskey? Yucky yuck yuck. Have some wine and join me instead.

 

Oprah D

 

Ping.

 

Oprah D

Well that explains the cheerful tone of your writing J drowning your sorrows like me?

 

Balckwhite07

 

Ping

 

Dear Blackwhite o7 (can we just change that to BW07? Typing your whole name is waaaay too long)

I have no sorrows to drown. Just enjoying a rare night alone in my apartment. Besides, doesn’t wine help you lose weight or something? Anyway, it’s good, I’m good, don’t need to be sad to drink.

No jugdy.

#justsaying

Oprah D

 

Ping

 

Oprah D

I think I just laughed aloud for the first time in like two weeks. Thanks for that.

I was not judgy. You were the one who told me we deserve happiness right?

Alone at home? Not usually alone?

BW07

 

I smirked at the quick switch to the nickname I had suggested. And typed back a quick reply. My eyes were getting droopy and the screen swayed.

 

Dearest BW07

Nope, usually my daughter is around but she’s off painting her nails or something with her bestie. So I get to be irresponsible.

And now, I’m afraid I have to sign off. Ill re read these in the morning and regret it. Totes not professional. But the wine is finished and my bed is calling.

Again, sorry about your divorce. But vie hard it gets better, since life isn’t over you know.

Sincerely

Oprah D

 

I got up to put my glass in the sink and the bottle in the trash, and only just stopped myself from doing it the other way around. Maybe a little drunker than I thought. Oh well.

I was halted by a ping from the laptop. Scanning quickly, I saw one last reply.

 

Oprah D

Sleep well, hope you don’t have a hangover.

Thanks for the laugh

BW07.

 

I closed the laptop and sighed, swaying happily to my bed.

 

-8-

My head and I were not on good terms the following morning.

It was Saturday morning(ish) and I didn’t have to pick Ada up until two pm from the zoo, where her friend’s parents were taking them.

I groaned as I made myself some coffee. Everything was so bright and noisy. Even the fucking birds outside my window. I scowled at them like it was their fault I’d drunk a whole bottle of wine.

God. A whole bottle. Drunk Michael makes bad decisions.

I collapsed in front of my laptop with the coffee and some aspirin, downing them before opening its face.

An email was waiting for me.

Before I read it, I went over the history. I groaned some more, and hid my face in my hands. What the actual fuck, drunk Michael?

It wasn’t that I didn’t remember anything. I recalled doing it, though rereading the details of what I actually said, I felt a simmering regret. I didn’t like getting mixed up with clients. I was too soft. I always took their shit personally and it screwed me over. That was the whole point of being anonymous.

The new email read:

 

Oprah D,

Just checking you’re not suffering from alcohol poisoning. I bet you have a trophy headache though.

Again, thanks for the chat last night.

Hope you’re ok

BW07

 

See? This is why I couldn’t get involved. Then people thought we were friends and wanted to chat…

But at the same time, it was sweet. He didn’t have to check up on me. Or say thanks. Twice.

After thinking for a few minutes, I constructed a very carefully worded reply.

 

Dear BlackWhite07,

So….I just reread last night’s mails.

Let me start by saying that I was a lot drunker than I realised. Um, sorry about that?

Secondly, I am glad I could make you laugh after such a difficult experience.

Thirdly, and I have to say most importantly, I have to sort of stop our interaction here. I know that last night was kind of fun, but I have a policy about not getting involved with clients. It can cause a lot of unnecessary harm for both parties. I’m not a professional therapist, but the same theory applies. I am really sorry if this comes off as harsh of insulting, but I’m speaking from experience.

Sorry again.

Regards

Oprah D

 

I bit my nails a bit before going to brush my teeth and get the fuzziness of my tongue. Feely double shitty now for being so careless. When a ping sounded from my laptop ten minutes later, I started guiltily.

When I opened it, it just said.

 

Oprah D

No problem. Thanks.

Blackwhite07

 

“Ah shit.” I sighed, before deleting the entire thread. Reminder to self. Do not answer email when wine is telling you its totally fine.

Another note to self; wine is the devil.

-8-

A few months later, Ada was sitting in the living room while I caught up on vacation paperwork. Most parents come down hard on their kids watching TV. I’m not like them. If she wants to watch it, I let her. She plays loads of outdoor sports and brings home good grades. Clearly, television isn’t melting her brain.

Maybe her actual parents would have done it differently, but you do what you can with what you got.

Eventually she comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my neck. She’s just high enough to do it if she stands on her toes when I’m sitting down.

“Mikey, I’m bored.” She tells me.

“The tragedy.” I intone, but I bring my hand up to squeeze her arm. Most of her friends have gone away for the short vacation and she misses them.

She huffs in my ear. “Mikeeeeeeey.”

I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. “Ok, I have to work though. But if you give me until three, we can go to the park and bike around a bit.”

“And scare the ducks?” she adds, delightedly.

I bring her around so I can look at her. “What do you have against water fowl?”

She shrugs, all angular bone and gorgeous chocolate brown curls. “They make funny sounds when I throw bread at them.”

I snicker, because it’s true. “We can bring bread, but at least wait until no-ones around before you try to hit them.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”

“You’re a weird kid.” I tell her, fluffing her hair out a bit. Those curls gave me hell in the early years, now I’ve got it down pat. Most days.

“You’re a weird dad.” She retorts before going to her room.

Well, I guess that’s true. I don’t socialise enough to know otherwise. I don’t really see other parents outside of compulsory school events and mandatory birthday parties. Not hugely chatty.

Being the single gay dad it a bit like being a celebrity. Everyone loves you in a kind of hero worship way; oh what a beautiful kind soul I am for taking in my orphaned godchild, and alone! And gay! Why, I’m a poster-child for middle class martyrdom. But no one really tries to dig much deeper than that. The few friends I do have aren’t from those circles.

While I have the tabs open, I hear a ‘bloop’ sound which indicates a chat hail. I’m confused, because I don’t have my chat open, but then I look at one of the tabs flashing, and realise it’s my Oprah inbox. The program I use has a built in chat function. Curious, but not unheard of.

I click open and my stomach drops a little. Its blackwhite07.

 

Bw07: hi. Are you there? I’m sorry, I know you don’t do this at all, but I really need to talk to someone.

 

I bit my lip. This is really not what I do. It’s not that I don’t do chat with clients, but it’s extremely rare. I don’t like being part of people drama if I don’t actually have an emotional investment in them. That means friends. It’s about keeping my distance.

But it’s kind of my fault. If I had kept it professional in the first place, he wouldn’t be thinking he could do this now.

 

B07: my father died. I have no one else I can talk to.

BW07: this is literally desperation talking here.

 

I fold my hands under my armpits, staring at the ceiling. This is drama, like a black hole, beckoning me closer. Already, my knee jerk reaction to console and comfort is itching to take over.

I watched the little icon that indicates typing is happening for a while. Then;

 

BW07: nevermind. Sorry I asked. Not being sarcastic, I know this isn’t your problem. Sorry.

 

Oh my lord, I can practically hear him crying tears onto his keyboard.

Hating myself for being weak, I click in the reply box.

 

O; hey. Its ok, I’m here. I can’t chat now though. Can we do this later?

 

Immediately I get a reply

 

BW07; yes please. Are you sure it’s ok?

I sigh, since it’s not actually, but vie said so and it’s my own funeral from here on in.

 

O: yeah it’s cool. I’ll be on again around 7:30pm. That ok?

BW07: yeah that’s perfect. I’ll see you then.

 

I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling.

“Ada? Come on, were going biking.” I yell.

She peeks her head around the door of her room, looking excited.

“But it’s only one thirty?” she inquires.

“You’re a lucky girl today. I need to get out of this house.” I say, getting up and going to the closet where I keep our helmets.

“Amen to that!” she says. A little expression she’s picked up from me. I think it’s cute, other people give her a weird look. I guess it does sound weird coming from a five year old kid, but I happen to think it sounds bloody magical.

So we go out for the afternoon. The parks are pretty crowded with other families, since its holidays, but there’s one we go to in particular that has a great track for the cyclists and of course, a duck pond. We stop there, with a bag of bread, but the ducks seem wise to Ada now because instead of coming closer for the food, they all skid away to the other end of the pond.

I chuckle from the bench, watching her disgruntled expression.

“What did you expect? You abuse them and now they don’t like you.” I tell her.

She sighs and comes to sit next to me with the bread. I fluff her hair.

“Maybe if you just throw the bread right here on the grass they’ll come back.” I say.

“I didn’t mean to make them hate Me.” she tells me.

I tilt my head. “Well honey, if you want them to like you, throwing food at them isn’t the way to go about it. Besides, they’re ducks, I don’t think they hate anyone. Try my suggestion. Their stomach will overrule their brains.”

So she does, and as predicted, the ducks come back. Food is food after all.

I squeeze her shoulder as we both let the ducks fluff around our feet and fight over the larger slices. “No more throwing bread, kay?”

She shakes her head, and her curls bounce and sway around her round face. She is the prettiest thing, I swear. “Nah, I’m done with that. This is better.”

About time, I think to myself. Parenting is hard. You want them to be their own person, but you also don’t want them to become little psychopaths. It’s a balancing act. I’m pretty sure not many parents would have been ok with her abusing the ducks, but I wanted her to get here on her own.

The rest of the afternoon is lazy. We get ice cream and go see the flower exhibition on the east side of the park. She’s tired after a couple of hours and wants to head home, and by the time we get there I’ve almost completely forgotten about meeting up with blackwhite07.

But after Ada is bathed and tucked away, and I’m gazing lazily at my laptop screen and catching up on comics, I hear a ‘bloop’ and I remember.

I start guiltily. Right, his dad died today. Not sure exactly how bad that is, but it must mean something if he reached out to me in the first place. I click open a chat window.

 

BW07: you there?

O: here J so, wanna tell me about your day?

BW07: my dad died.

 

I pause a little before typing back. It’s a loaded sentence.

 

O: how are you doing?

BW07: I don’t know tbh. We weren’t close, but it was sudden.

O: wanna tell me what happened?

 

Usually people don’t need a much of a trigger to spill everything. Sometimes, all people need is to know someone is listening and willing. He still seems hesitant though.

 

BW07: look I do actually. But I know this is against your policy. I’m sorry for pushing it.

 

I smile a little. At least he gets it. It makes me feel easier about the whole thing.

 

O: I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t ok with it, no matter how sad you were J honestly. I don’t waste time being nice.

BW07: yeah, I got that. You’re really honest. I guess that’s why I wanted to talk to you. You’re more genuine than most people I know.

I get this a lot. But it’s easier to be genuine over anonymous text.

 

O: all good. So, you doing ok?

BW07: yeah. No. I don’t know. Like I said, we weren’t close, but he was my dad. I only had the one.

O: most people do. J What happened?

BW07: he had a heart attack. It was completely out of nowhere. He didn’t have a history or anything. Or maybe he did and he never told me. I don’t know.

O: that’s quite rough. But I’ve heard it can happen.

BW07: yeah, I’ve been researching. My mom is shattered. She keeps calling me to tell me what happened over and over, like she’s forgotten telling me the first time. And then my agents keep asking me what I’m supposed to tell the press.

Oh right, he’s famous. Id actually forgotten.

O: what are you supposed to tell them? How is it their business?

BW07: apparently it is. The public always want to know the latest celebrity gossip. They knew before I did, can you believe that? I had to find out from my agent. Then my mom called after that.

I frown.

 

O: that’s kind of fucking horrible.

BW07: ha! Yeah it kind of is.

A pause in the conversation.

BW07: I don’t know what to do.

 

This is the part where people need me. A rudder in their sea of sadness. I think for a moment then reply

 

O: well firstly, I think all you need to say to the press is this: you are in mourning and you deserve your privacy for that. They can wait a fucking week at least, and so can your agents surely.

O: secondly, I’m assuming you’re far from home. Maybe you should go back and be with your mom? Can you do that?

Bw07: like, physically or emotionally?

O: both.

….

BW07: I guess I should.

BW07: everything feels sort of weird you know? Like my dad’s not actually dead, except he is

BW07: and I don’t feel sad enough about it

O: and you feel guilty about that.

BW07: yeah.

O: look I don’t know you and your dad’s history, but I know death is the weird fucking thing that leaves most people feeling like you are now. How can the living comprehend death? It’s not possible. We can only understand things within the realm of our own experiences.

bW07: that’s…I don’t know how to process that, right now.

O: it’s ok. The point is; there’s no script on how to feel about death. Your dad is dead, and you get to feel whatever you want about it. Sadness, happiness, or nothing. It’s yours to feel. Characteristic to you.

BW07: ok, that actually does make sense.

O: im wise, what can I say.

BW07: lol. And so modest.

O: I try. No I don’t.

BW07: you actually made me smile. Well done.

O: don’t smile a lot?

BW07: not today. It’s a bit of shit day.

O: I really am sorry. I’m not just saying that.

BW07: I believe you. I mean, I hearing it from everyone today, like a hundred timed, but at least when you say it, I don’t feel like you’re reading it off a cue card.

 

I smile at that. It’s nice to be appreciated.

We chat some more. He’s wavering between being broken and being confused, but the chatting is easy and seems to help him at least. He’s a good guy. And at least in this, I can sort of help from experience. I remember what it was like when Roanne died. I remember the hollow kind of numbness when I got the news.

Of course, I couldn’t stay that way. I had a baby screaming and my best friend’s last dying wish for me to be her new parent.

We chat late into the night, eventually talking about nothing really important. I really don’t usually let things go on this long, but tis just…kind of fun, you know? We chat like we’ve done it loads of times. And I make him laugh, which makes me feel good.

 

-8-

Ada and I are on the couch watching something mindless that kids enjoy. It involves bright colours, loud noises and bangs.

“Why can’t we watch animal planet or something?” I try, for the sake of some inner parenting muscle that has long since atrophied.

“I like this.” She says simply. It’s an old conversation. I drop it cos really it’s not a big deal and I like just sitting on the couch with her cuddled up against me. Family time, in my quiet, cosy apartment on the third floor.

During an ad break, they do a quick flash of the news coming on later and Ada sits up.

“Oooh! That’s Hale Heart.” She says, pointing at the figure currently filling the screen.

“Who?” I ask. I don’t keep up with pop culture much.

She rolls her eyes at me like she fifteen and not five. “He’s a singer. From this century.”

“Judgy.” I mutter but turn my attention back to the screen. Hale heart is one of those classically beautiful sexy, caramel American types. Average height, but gorgeous _lord_. Coffee coloured skin and those crazy intense blue eyes, like the chick from the national geographic cover? And short, tightly curled hair. Of course he is pretty. You have be pretty to be in that industry and survive.

“Is he popular?” I try.

She sighs at my disappointing lack of pop culture knowledge. “Yeah. And he’s cute.”

I turn to look down at her, unnerved. “Ada, you’re five. Don’t go around thinking boys are cute until you’re at least ten. For my sake.”

She ignored me and watches the TV instead.

“…news of his father’s death has been rumoured to affect Hale Heart most profoundly, but he had only this to say;”

The screen cuts to an image of the man being surrounded by microphones, while he is obviously trying to get away.

‘I just want some time alone please. I’m in mourning and I deserve my privacy.’ He says, before turning away and readjusting his cap to cover his eyes better.

I freeze.

“Um, what did they say happened?” I ask Ada casually, while the news slides away and an advert for vacuum cleaners comes up.

“His dad died. Heart attack or something.” She sighs prettily. “He looks so sad. They should just leave him alone.”

I click my tongue.

Ah shit.

 

-8-

I decide its better not to tell BW07 that I know who he really is now. Although, in all honestly, it wasn’t that hard to work out. Unless he assumed I have no TV, I was going to get there on my own eventually. But if he didn’t want me to know, I was fine with that.

I bit my lip, because I have actively broken my rule about not socialising with my clients. Chatting definitely counts as socialising, even if it’s mostly counselling.

But since that day, we’ve been chatting on and off. Not stupid spam emails, but actual chatting. I don’t initiate, but I don’t tell him to stop either. He talks about his day, I share some jokes. It’s all very casual and friendly.

Except now I know what he looks like, and who he is.

I may have done a little online research.

Note to self: do not do online research about the current pop idol who is prettier than diamonds and stars.

Oh my soul. This man.

 And now whenever he is typing to me, or says his laughing, I can just see it in my mind.

It’s not good for me. But yeah. Apparently sober Michael makes dumb decisions too.

 

-8-

BW07:  so it just occurred to me, I owe you money. Could you send me a bill sometime?

I frown.

O: why do you owe me money?

Bw07: because I’ve definitely used more than my initial three emails haven’t I?

 

Hmm, he has a point. But at this stage, I just don’t feel right taking money from him. We’d becomes sort or…friends.

 

O: don’t stress it. I don’t feel like you owe me anything.

 

A fairly lengthy pause.

 

BW07: are you absolutely sure? I have the money.

O: lol, I don’t think you’re poor. It just doesn’t feel ethical at this point.

BW07: ha, you didn’t have a problem with charging me before.

O: yeah but that was then. I don’t know, I guess I feel like you’re a friend now? Can’t charge friends.

 

It’s a risky thing to say. Because he could easily just say no, were not. But I would be surprised if he did that now though.

 

BW07: ok J but I still feel guilty. I know you’ve been cutting into your time to help me out…

 

I roll my eyes.

 

O: if I say no, I mean it. I’m not bullshitting you. Besides I only reply to you after school’s done. If you really want to give me money, go buy me a coffee at a local coffee store and dedicate it to me. I could someone to supplement my coffee addiction.

I’m half paying attention to the conversation while I set some course work in another program. When I hear the bloop I click back quickly.

 

Bw07: school hours?

 

Shit. Fuckity shit.

 

O: um, I was distracted. Didn’t mean to let that slip.

Bw07: its ok J you a student?

 

Ha. I should be, but no. thinking carefully, I type a reply.

O: no. um, like I said, I didn’t mean to say anything…personal.

Bw07: ha! It’s not a call-sex line. Besides I thought we were friends now? J

O: ha! Ass.

 

I’m grinning because he’s kind of right.

 

Bw07: so? Not a student. A teacher then?

O: oh all right, you wheedled it out of me. Yes, I’m a teacher. I teach fourth grade.

Bw07: that’s cool J do you enjoy it?

 

I think about the question. Not a lot of people ask me that, when they find out what I do.

 

O: it’s ok. I don’t always want to tar my hair out so there’s that.

Bw07: you really make me smile. Just ok? Not your dream job?

O: does anyone really get their dream job? No, I wanted to teach on a tertiary level, but I didn’t get far enough in college.

Bw07: yeah? You sound like that wasn’t the plan.

O: it wasn’t. Things…life, happened.

 

There’s a pause and I use it to think. I know he’s going to ask me about Roanne. Which will mean telling him a lot more about myself than I had planned. But I’m feeling guilty cos I basically know a lot more about him that I’m supposed to too.

 

BW07: can I ask?

 

Biting my lip then sighing in a big whoosh I reply.

O: well, ok, I’ll tell you. Cos were FRIENDS now. I was in my second year at college when my best friend and her husband died in a car accident. I was Ada’s only god parent. So yeah, basically I had to drop out so I could look after her, ‘be a dad’ kind of thing.

 

A much longer pause this time.

 

Bw07: fuck.

O: that’s what I said J

Bw07: wow. That’s…amazing. I mean it.

 

I smile ruefully to myself, before taking a sip of the coffee I forgot about. People usually say that when I tell them.

 

O: it was a big deal then. It’s not now. Ada’s my daughter.

Bw07: that must have been incredibly hard. I can’t even get my head around it.

O: when you get thrown into something, you don’t have the luxury of choice. I had to take her or leave her to social services. And I would never have done that. So yeah.

…..

Bw07: well, you’ve officially got more of my respect than most people I know.

I actually chuckle a bit at that.

 

O: such a privilege. J

Bw07: um, thanks for telling me that. I just thought you went overseas or something. I wasn’t trying to pry.

O: it’s ok. I wouldn’t have told you if I was uncomfortable with it.

Bw07: good. I would hate that.

 

I take another strengthening sip of luke-warm coffee. Not very effective but it’s all I had.

 

O: look, since were being honest, I have to tell you something else. Um, don’t be mad.

Bw07: ok? (Insert expectant pause)

O: I know who you are. Sorry.

 

Because I’m chicken shit, I get up after typing that and go make myself another cup of coffee. By the time I get back, I’m feeling not very much braver, but I open the chat bar anyway.

 

Bw07: you do?

Bw07: wait are you sure?

Bw07: how did you find out?

Bw07: how long have you known?

 

I take a breath before responding.

 

O: yeah I do. Yes I’m sure. I figured it out after watching the news and you quoted me. So about a month I guess. Since your dads funeral.

 

Super long silence. I wince, hoping I haven’t completely pissed him off. But I’m just too honest to keep something like that hidden for long.

 

O: if it helps, I don’t really care.

Bw07: are you really sure though? Type my real name then.

I roll my eyes.

O: Hale Heart

Bw07: shit.

O: sorry

O: are you mad?

….

Bw07: no. not actually. I guess I should be, but I’m not.

Bw07: kind of nice actually. I hate lying.

O: anonymity isn’t lying though.

Bw07: well no. but were friends though.

O: hmm. So you say ;)

Bw07: what does that mean? J

O: it means you didn’t volunteer to tell me. I had to figure it out myself.

Bw07: I guess you’re right.

Bw07: wait, is that your way of saying you’re not going to tell me who you are?

O: bingo J

bw07: that’s not fair! You barely had to try.

O: not my fault you’re famous.

Bw07: that’s a bitter pill. Not only do you know I am, you know what I look like J

 

My fingers halt above the keyboard before starting again, a bit slowly.

 

O: oh, like that’s such a hardship, since you’re…anyway. why does it matter what I look like?

Bw07: maybe I want to know what you look like. Cute, ugly, tall short, blonde brunette?

 

I swallow and try for a joke.

 

O: I’m ugly, short and I’ve got warts. Ask anyone J

Bw07: I can’t, since I have no idea who you are, and this don’t know your friends.

O: he he he (evil laughter)

…….

Bw07: I could find out you know. There are ways to track down this address.

 

That brings me up short. Immediately my back is up.

 

O: are you fucking serious?

O: I didn’t go looking to find you, it just happened cos you were on the news. I wouldn’t even have told you about it but I was trying to be honest.

Bw07: I’m sorry.

O: I don’t even care if you were the pope’s personal fucking assistant. But I tell you I don’t want you to find out about me and you actually threaten to use your money and influence so fucking stalk me?

Bw07: I’m really sorry. That was stupid.

O: I’m actually furious. What the actual fuck. This is why I don’t socialise. THIS is why there is the three email rule.

Bw07: I’m so sorry. Like really. That’ was an asshole move. I regretted it the second I pressed send.

 

I’m seething. I can’t actually think straight I’m so pissed, and no pun intended.

 

O: you of all people should understand the right to privacy. I’m done for the night. Chat later.

 

I sign off before he can reply. I’m so unbelievable angry.  To be honest, I don’t know if I’m actually going to write to him again.

Apart from it being a gross, big-brother type invasion of privacy, there is another important reason I don’t want him to know who I am.

Hale Heart thinks I’m a woman.

I wouldn’t say we’ve been flirting exactly. Just that we’ve become friends really quickly. In the kind of way that, if this was a gay guy and we were actually meeting in person, we would have been on a couple of dates by now and probably kissed. The way you just click with some people and it feels good when you’re around them, you know?

And he thinks I’m a woman. I know he does. He doesn’t have to say it.  It’s like him asking what I look like. I know he’s expecting to see a lady. If he actually sees me, shit will hit the fan. Big time. Shit flying everywhere. You hear me?

He’s hinted before. But I can’t tell him anything. Because if I tell him one thing, I’ll have to tell him everything. Hi, I’m twenty-seven, average height, average looks, short brunette hair, and tidy fingernails and oh I’m a _guy_.

I mean, even if he were gay, he’s so far out of my league it’s not even conceivable. He’s literally a fantasy.

So no, I can’t tell him who I am.

Maybe it’s better like this. Cutting it off here. Avoid all that shit.

My coffee’s gone cold again. Feeling far more morose than I have any right to be, I dump it down the drain and go check that Ada is still alive.

I don’t know if other parents do this. But when she was little, like really little, I used to check on her obsessively. I’d read up about cot death and I freaked out. So every two hours I’d wake up and hold a tissue over her nose to see it puff out and know she was breathing. She’s almost six now. But I still do it sometimes. I sit on her bed and just watch the tiny rise and fall of her chest, and feel relieved.

She’s alive. I didn’t kill her. I’m doing ok at this parenting thing.

Maybe not so great at other things

 

-8-

Hale Heart, gorgeous musician extraordinaire, has not forgotten my number.

Figuratively of course. He doesn’t have my number.

But every time I open my chat, he’s left messages. A lot of apologies. A lot.

I want to say that I don’t care that he cares, but I’m flattered. And I shouldn’t be.

After four days, though, I get exasperated and finally type back.

 

**O: alright. Apology accepted. But I think maybe we should just back off anyway. Things got a bit too close, and I want to keep my business and private life separate. I made a mistake letting us become more than that.**

Of course, he doesn’t agree

 

**Bw07: look I made a dumb mistake. Can we stay friends, please?**

**O: rolling my eyes here. Why do you care so much?**

I’m being kind of bitchy, hoping to put him off.

 

**Bw07: because you’re my friend.**

**0: I’m sure you have loads of friends.**

**…….**

**Bw07: I don’t. you know that.**

I feel bad now. I do know it. I mean, everyone’s got friends, but he’s like me. He can count real friends on one hand.

**O: sorry. Low blow.**

**O: I just…look that was shitty.**

**Bw07: I know**

**O: I know you know. It really freaked me out though.  It’s about invasion of privacy. I know I don’t really have to tell you what that’s like, but I need to say it.**

**Bw07: I would offer to send you a bunch of flowers in apology but as I don’t know anything about you, and THAT’S TOTALLY OK, I won’t.**

**Bw07: here’s a virtual bunch.**

He sends a little gif of a set of flowers opening. My lips quirk despite myself.

**O: cheesy.**

**Bw07: am I forgiven?**

I sigh, because I know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to.

**O: yeah ok. Sorry for freaking out on you.**

**Bw07: I deserved it. Can we move on?**

**O: please.**

**Bw07:** **J**

**…….**

**Bw07: I meant it though. You’re one of the very few people I know I can just talk to. It means a lot to me.**

**O: it’s easier to be this way online** **J**

**Bw07: well, I don’t know about that. Personally, I think we would get along just as well in person. But the point is, I’m grateful. Thank you.**

I’m a little flustered now, because I do agree with him. And, because he said ‘thank you’. I get a lot people asking advice. They hardly ever say thank you.

**O: you don’t say thank you for friendship, dork.** **J**

**Bw07: I guess not. But I’m saying it.**

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I cannot _even_.

**O: this is against my better judgement, but…. I have brown hair.**

**………………**

**Bw07: seriously?**

**O: yeah. Now you can try to find me among the millions of brunettes around the city.**

**Bw07: that’s harsh** **J**

**O: throwing you a bone here.**

 

I really _really_ shouldn’t have though. But I can’t take it back now.

 

-8-

Hale has been bothering me for a video call. It doesn’t escape him that this would be a huge thing for me, but he has no idea that it can never happen.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been giving him more hints about my appearance. I feel guilty because I’m outright perving over pictures of him online. Damn, even in candid shots, the guy is gorgeous. He has that soft, muscular look. Not overly defined, but still soft enough to look boyish. And those eyes…I can’t. He always looks like a kid asking for a treat he’s not allowed to have. All winsome and sexy and….damn. He doesn’t even have to try.

Comparatively, I’m dull as muck. Duller. I’m wallpaper dull. Brown hair, brown eyes. I’m not fat, but I’m not built. I usually have some stubble somewhere. Any partners I’ve had in the past all have said they’re with me for my personality, which is another way of saying I’m just not good looking. I mean, I’ve a good sense of humour, but as for my face…meh. You’d forget me in a crowd.

So no. I’ve been firm on any video or voice calls. Not gonna happen.

I shouldn’t be flirting. I really shouldn’t. It’s dangerous and unfair to me and him, when he so obviously thinks I’m a woman. Rationally, I can’t explain it. And I am grateful Roanne isn’t here to see me do something so horribly stupid. But I can’t help myself when he leaves funny emails in my inbox, or sends me one liners about his day.

And he asks too. About me. Like, about my day, about teaching, about Ada. And since, like any doting parent, I can’t get enough of talking about her. And he loves it. He checks up on how she’s doing, laughs at her weird quirky ways. It’s nice. Too nice.

I’m an idiot. We’ve covered this yes?

So, as the universe is wont to do, it’s completely screws me over in the most innocent of ways possible.

Frankie is playing really loud in the apartment. I’m making pancakes in the kitchen, while singing along at top volume and swaying my hips along to ‘sunny side of the street’, in my t-shirt and boxers. It’s a scene, but it’s me and Ada’s thing. We pump up the volume as loud as we can without neighbours complaining, and dance like crazy people.

Growing up with me means she likes the classics; Louis Primo, Armstrong, Sinatra, Billie. I can’t get enough of saxophone and smooth chocolate tones. The music is also just my taste of hopelessly sappy romance. If you haven’t guessed it, this is why I don’t get pop culture references. At least in terms of music.

I’m so into the moment that it takes a minute for Ada to get my attention, but pulling hard on my shirt. I start and put down the spatula I’m using to reach for the radio remote and turn the volume down. Then I turn to her.

“Sorry, honey. Too loud?”

“Not for me. But you have a call.” She says, blinking wide green eyes at me.

“A call?” I glace at my phone net to me on the counter top. Its black, “I don’t-“

“Not there.” She says, tugging my shirt again, then pointing to my laptop, which I’ve left open on the kitchen table. “There.”

It was already facing my way, since I had been working on it between pancakes and before the dancing took over. My eyes drag to it, all confusion for a moment. Then someone dumped a bucket of cold water over me.

There, in an open video chat window, is Hale Heart. And he is staring at me, mouth open and eyes wide.

I stare back, frozen for way too long. Then I lunge forward across the small space and shut the screen. I stand there, heart pounding.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit…” I’m muttering

“You’re not supposed to say that word.” Ada says and she sounds worried. I look at her then and I can see her little fuzzy eyebrows wrinkling. “Did I do something wrong?”

I can explain later to her that it’s not ok to answer calls on my laptop for me, even though she is welcome to pick up my phone if I’m in the bath or the toilet. But for now, my baby is feeling bad about something she doesn’t understand, and I’m a parent first.

“No honey.” I say, gesturing for her to come closer. She does and I give her a hug. “No, it as just…a surprise. I wasn’t expecting a call.”

“ok.” I can hear she is not totally convinced, but she will let it go. “Can we put Frankie on again?”

“Absolutely.” I say vehemently. I need thee distraction.

Though nothing can really distract me from the mess I just made.

Shit shit fuckity shit.

 

-8-

After soccer practice, Ada and I take the scenic route home through a sculpture park. It adds about twenty minutes to the walk, but we’re in no hurry to be anywhere. And the longer I’m away from my computer, the better. I haven’t even touched it since yesterday.

“Amelia Costas has a new baby brother.” She says to me. She’s walking along the top of a wall and I’m holding her hand so she doesn’t lose her balance and fall off.

“Is that right?” I reply.

I teach at Ada’s school. It’s a great saving, because I get a teachers discount on fees, and I don’t have to worry about her when I’m not around. If anything happens I can be there ASAP. And it has. She broke a leg once, jumping off the fifth step on the staircase and landing wrong.

“Yeah. She says all it does it cry and eat.”

“Sounds boring.”

“And annoying.”

I smirk. I don’t really know about other babies, but Ada was the sweetest little thing. Very rarely cried, slept well. It was only later on I realised how lucky I’d been with her.

“At least you don’t have to worry about that.” I tell her, as she hops off the edge of the wall and resumes walking beside me.

“Yeah, because boys can’t have babies right?”

“Right.”

Ada knows that she won’t be getting any siblings from me. We’ve discussed my sexual preferences in as much depth as a child can really manage, and it doesn’t actually feature much in our conversations.

“Cos you like boys.” She adds.

I nod. “I like boys.”

“Can I like boys?” she asks.

I frown at her. “Not until your age is a double digit at least.”

“Can I like girls then?”

Now I stop, because I know her teasing me. “Same answer.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “What if I want to?”

I sigh and cross my arms, facing off against my nearly six year old. “Are you serious? Do you like someone?”

She turns and carries on walking, all regal, leaving me to follow. “No. I just want to know if I can.”

I catch her lightly on the shoulder to get her to stop. “Ada, honey. You can like whoever you want, boys or girls. But I really hope when you do, you’ll tell me about it. There’s more to liking someone than which bathroom they use.”

She scrunches her eyebrows in earnest confusion. “Like what?”

I look at the sky and try to think. “Like if they’re worth liking. If they’re a good person and can make you laugh. If they’re honest, or kind or nice to…” I flounder. “Old people.”

Her eyebrows are really scrunched now. “Why should I care if they’re nice to old people?”

I rub my face, because I was not expecting to have a deep discussion about relationships right now. “Bad example. But you should care about the kind of person they are, is what I’m saying.”

She nods uncertainly, but I know she’s processing the words. Sometimes, she can be so serious.

“And they should like who you really are, as in, you never have pretend around them.” I add for good measure. I think I’ve covered the main points.

“I don’t pretend for anyone.” She tells me with her chin in the air.

I stifle a chuckle, because her pride is like a balloon waiting to be popped sometimes.

“Good. That’s my girl.” I say, fluffing her hair. She catches my hand and grips it, holding it the rest of the way home.

 

-8-

 

I successfully avoid my laptop until the middle of the next day, when I have to use it to pull up coursework that I can’t fudge my way through. Some people might say this is bad teaching others might say this exactly teaching.

I manage to completely ignore all the glaring message notifications in my inbox so that I can focus on teaching. Though, when I say focus, I actually mean like eighty percent of my attention is in class. The other twenty percent isn’t.

Since the unfortunate incident, I’ve been jumping between feeling horribly guilty for lying and flirting, feeling righteously angry and indignant that he called even though I asked him not to, and basically beating myself up for being so fucking stupid as to leave my laptop there in the first place.

Things would end now. I knew they would. They had to. He had said before he hated liars. That was me to a T. But I was just kind of horribly disappointed because the fact was I had a crush and now my crush hated me.

Kind of sucked. But I had brought it on myself.

Not like anything was going to ever happen anyways.

The bell rings and the students shuffle out, and internally I’m sighing hugely because it’s my free period and I can breathe for the next forty minutes. As they leave, they drop their homework assignments on my desk and I nod to them vaguely.

Then Butler arrives.

Butler is not the happiest of kids. He’s got stuff going on at home, but he’s not in my homeroom so I don’t have all the details on him, but I know it’s not good. And it gives him a shitty attitude. I’m sympathetic to a point, but ultimately he’s a brat with money.

He stares me down, a picture of insolence in a ten year old body.

“Butler, do you have your assignment?” I ask him politely, even though I know the answer.

“No.” he sneers. Actually sneers. He learned that somewhere, because it looks ugly on his boyish face.

 I sigh and thread my fingers, dealing with him calmly as usual. “You know this will mean a black mark on you for my class. I’m sorry but I can’t not give you one, when everyone else had handed theirs in.”

He often doesn’t give in his homework, so this is nothing new. Even though he’s unpleasant, I try to give him leeway. But now he just grows angrier.

“I don’t have to do anything for a faggot.”

The word comes out of his mouth unpractised, and he stumbles over it, like he’s trying it out. I freeze and blink at him slowly.

“Where did you learn that word, butler?” I ask quietly.

He lifts his chin even higher in a gesture of false bravado. I can see he feels awkward now, his eyes are darting left and right even though he tries to hold my eye. But he won’t back down.

“My dad told me you’re an f-faggot and I shouldn’t have to listen to you.”

I close my eyes for a moment and gather myself. When I open them I try to be calm and non-threatening.

“Regardless of what your father says, I am still one of your teachers and you still have to do the work set by me. And I would advise you to stop using that word, Butler. It’s an ugly thing to say and a dangerous word to use in the wrong company. If I hear it again, I will report you.”

His chin is wobbling a bit now, and he is already curling in on himself. Under all that attitude, is just a kid who is used to being cowed. Even if the words are soft. That makes my heart drop.

“You’re excused butler. I expect the assignment tomorrow.” I say, and he gratefully escapes the room. I sink back into my seat.

I’ve had to deal with this kind of thing before, but the school here has been amazing. When word came out that I was gay, there were predictably some parents who had problems. The usual, narrow minded, hateful kind. But the school wouldn’t budge. I have their support and I know I’m lucky.

But it doesn’t stop them from passing it on to their kids.

The whole experience leaves me feeling shakier than I want to admit, and I’ve almost forgotten about the awaiting messages. When my eyes are drawn to the flashing urgency of the unread messages in my inbox I click **open**. Not because I’m hoping for any comfort, but because I’m feeling bleak and running a little on auto-pilot. And when you’re feeling down, you tend to do things that make you feel worse.

I just wanted to get it over with and move on with my life. There’s only three short messages.

**Bw07: um ok, that did not go as planned.**

**Bw07: can we talk?**

**Bw07: ok, you’re pissed, I’m sorry. I just dialled as a joke and then I thought you were the one picking up and that was so obviously not the case. Anyway, please can we talk?**

 

I’m frowning at the screen. This was not what I was expecting. Outrage, yes. Accusations of betrayal of trust, definitely. Not this. Experimentally, I type a reply, all my work forgotten for the moment.

 **O: hey**.

About ten minutes later, while I was scrolling blankly through the book of face, I get a reply.

**Bw07: hey! You’re online!**

I grin, but I’m still cautious.

**O: uh, yes. Obviously.**

**bw07: don’t act like you haven’t been avoiding me.**

**O: I wasn’t. Because I was absolutely avoiding you.**

**Bw07: I’m glad you stopped then.**

**O: I only replied because I’m having a shit moment and felt like making it worse.**

**………….**

**Bw07: wait what?**

I sit back then, because it suddenly dawns on me that not only is this not going down in flames like I expected it to, it’s remaining alarmingly mundane.

**Bw07: listen, I’m in the middle of a recording session. Can we talk later?**

I shrug and let loose a disbelieving laugh, even though I have no audience.

**O: sure.**

**Bw07: normal time?**

**O: yeah ok.**

I see his icon blink off, showing he’s offline again and I stare a little.

Wait, what?

-8-

Ada stayed up later than usual tonight for some inexplicable reason known only to the gods and herself, so it’s eight before I get to my laptop. I have a glass of wine at the ready.

The day didn’t really improve. It’s not that things were horrible, just that there are some days where everything is harder than usual to deal with. The subways are too full, dinner burns, no clean underwear. That kind of thing. By the time I’m sitting down, I’m kind of done. Wine is the only thing keeping me sane at this point.

I log on and immediately I get a hail.

**Bw07: are you there?**

**O: yip yip**

**Bw07:** **J** **how are you doing? Still having a shitty day?**

I grin humourlessly. Ok we can play ‘avoidance’ if he wants. I’m the pro.

**O: pretty much.**

**Bw07: what happened?**

**O: just a series of unfortunate events really. Started with a kid calling me names, and just went downhill from there.**

**Bw07: a kid called you names? Is that allowed?**

**O: afraid so. Free country and all that. It’s not really his fault, but there’s nothing like second hand bigotry to ruin a day.**

**Bw07: second hand bigotry?**

At this point, I notice my glass is empty. Gosh that was quick. Guess it’s time for a refill.

**O: hold on, getting a refill on my wine.**

When I came back, I see the message

**Bw07: back to wine are we?** **J**

**O: some days are wine days. Today is a wine day. No judgy.**

**Bw07: no judgy at all** **J**

With a glass and a half of wine in me, and travelling fast to my brain, I throw caution to the wind. Taking another gulp and lean forward and type quickly.

**O: can we just talk about the thing? The elephant in the room?**

**……..**

**Bw07: you mean my prank call that ended up not being a prank?**

**O: I most certainly feel pranked.**

**Bw07:** **J**

**Bw07: it wasn’t meant to be. Like I said, it really didn’t go as planned. I’m guessing ada picked up?**

At this point I getting annoyed **.**

**O: look, you don’t have to be nice about it.**

**Bw07: ?**

**O: I’m sorry I lied.**

I’m so glad to finally type those lines because it’s been gnawing at me for ages.

**Bw07: um….what are we talking about here?**

Now I pause, because there’s being nice, and there is being dense. Fine, I can be blunt.

 **O: I’m sorry I lied and didn’t tell you I was a guy**.

The pause goes on too long and I not sure what to say, so I fill it with drunk nonsense.

**O: I knew you thought I was a woman for a while, but at first it didn’t matter cos well…it didn’t. And then after a while it felt like lying but then it felt like it was too late to say anything. So right now, I’m a bit surprised cos I seriously thought you were going to rip me a new one and here you are being nice and acting like it’s just a misunderstanding. I’m feeling kind of off kilter about all of this.**

**O: there was an apology in there somewhere.**

**O: anyway sorry.**

**……..**

**Bw07: ok firstly. You’re spelling is terrible.**

I looked sceptically at my glass which was now almost empty. Again. When did that happen?

**O: I may be slightly drunk. Wine day.**

**Bw07:** **J** **secondly, why did you think I thought you were a woman?**

Wait what?

I type back quickly and curse when I keep having to retype, since I’m now hyper aware of my spelling.

**O: you mean, why did I think that you seeing me in person for the first time sent you into a state of shock and horror?**

**Bw07: lol. I’m really laughing now. What shock and horror?**

**O: I saw your face!**

**…………….**

**Bw07:** **J**

**Bw07: I was in shock because when you picked up I thought I was going to see your face or something and what I actually saw was you in your kitchen (?) singing aloud to Sinatra (?) making breakfast (?) and wearing a t-shirt and boxers for about two minutes before you actually noticed me.**

**Bw07: it was a sight to behold.**

**O: earth swallow me now.**

No really. I’ve fetched a pillow from the couch and I’m groaning into it so I don’t wake Ada. It’s a while before I’m composed enough to return to the keyboard. I pour myself glass # three and take a deep drink before replying.

**O: so you’ve known how long?**

**Bw07: a while I guess. I didn’t know you were trying to hide it.**

**O: I wasn’t! It just got complicated. How did you know?**

**Bw07: we were chatting about Ada once and you said something about you being a dad and I went from that.**

I smack my forehead with my hand. I’m an idiot. I think that was the one other drunk conversation I’ve had with Hale. It also means that he’s known since forever basically. And I’ve been twisting myself in knots because I thought he thought I was a woman and we were being all flirty…

Hang on.

**O: so you aren’t horrified that I’m a man?**

**Bw07: why would I be?**

I’m really going to have to say it, aren’t I? Can I even say it? Am I letting my crush get the better of me and being like a fucking teenage girl?

**O: because you wanted to know if I was cute.**

There. That’s safe enough right? He did say that once.

The three little dancing dots that indicate he’s typing a reply last forever.

**Bw07: you mean because we’ve been flirting with each other?**

Shit. Yes. Actually that’s exactly why. At least I know it wasn’t my imagination.

**O: yup.**

**Bw07: I still want to know.**

**Bw07: if you’re cute.**

Is this guy for real?

**O: is that right?**

**Bw07: well, I did see you sort of. But whenever I think about that call, I keep seeing boxers with little red rocket ships on them.**

**O: OH MY GOD**

I’m dying. But the line makes me brave. Or stupid. Take your pick.

I click the call icon, and goddamit if Hale doesn’t pick up almost instantly.

And there he is. It’s night time there too, wherever that is and he’s so clearly not wearing even a shirt it’s not fair. He looks a bit tired, but those fever bright eyes are wide and smiling.

“Finally.” He says.

 

-8-

Hale Heart is the most gorgeous man alive.

I mean, I’m not alone in this thought, but since all the other people who think so are female and in their teens, I think my opinion carries some weight.

Video calls make talking different.  Not bad, but different. I can actually hear his voice now. Which is both wonderful and sort of torturous. There’s a reason the man makes his living off music.

“So you like the golden oldies huh?” he asks me one night. There’s no wine, but I’m perched on my chair, one leg folded under me and half paying attention to my marking and half to him. He doesn’t mind, since he’s usually jotting down lyrics or notes or something.

“Yeah. It’s the saxophone. And the voice. They have that sort of…” I try and find the word.

“Smoothness. Starting out low and lingering at the end of their notes.” He finished for me.

I smile at him. “Yeah, that. But it’s not just that. Music from that age just felt more genuine you know? Like a love song was a real love song. They have the stupidest, corniest lines in them, but you don’t squirm because it fits. And also, I love saxophone.”

He glances at me and I try not to melt. It’s hard, because he makes a living off his music, but that face is angelic. And when he’s just sending me an honest to god innocent glance, it looks like come-to-bed eyes.

“Saxophone?” he smiles a cupids half smile.

I swallow. “Yeah. It sounds like a voice.”

He stops what he’s doing and looks at me more fully. “It’s kind of awesome that you say that. About the music too. I never really thought of Sinatra that way, but I guess you’re right.”

I shrug and look away, pretending to be busy with something else momentarily.

“Do you have a favourite song?” he asks and I laugh.

“It’s impossible to have a favourite song.”

“Top three then.”

I sigh and look at him witheringly. “Another impossibility. Maybe a top ten.”

“Give me three of the top ten.” He grins and leans his cheek on one hand, waiting.

So I count off the first three that pop into my head. “ _Sunday is gloomy_ \- Billie. _La vie en rose_ \- the Louis Armstrong version. And _You don’t know me_ \- Michael Buble.”

He raises his brows, impressed. “Nice list.”

I shrug. “I like the crooners. You have some favourites?”

He huffs a thoughtful breathe. “Well, I guess it’s just as difficult for me. It’s like a flavour of the week thing. Right now, U2 keeps running through my head.”

I screwed my forehead together. “I think I know them. Irish band?”

He laughs openly at me. “The fact that you know so little about music in this century is still amazing to me I keep thinking you must be faking it.”

I roll my eyes. “Ada likes to chirp me about it. What can I say, I’m an old soul.”

“And a romantic one too, looks like.” He says, and I swear his eyes are twinkling.

Suddenly I’m all awkward elbows and knees. I shift and resettle myself in my seat.

It’s not like I’m dazzled by his fame. Considering I didn’t even know who he was before we started chatting, it’s hard to be really. I only know him, as he is, as who has been since we’ve met.

It’s that I honestly don’t really know why he’s still talking to me. And well, flirting with me. So I decide that I have to broach the subject.

“Look, Hale-“

“Yes, Michael?” he loves the fact that he knows my name now. And I swear, every time he says it, I get a little hot spot in the middle of my back.

“Hale, we haven’t spoken about it but I kind of need to.”

He sits back now, face relaxing into a serious expression, letting me know he’s listening.

“What’s going on here?” I say haltingly, hands coming up to wave around stupidly. “Look, we’ve moved past the fact that were both guys and friends, but well…if it’s not obvious by now, I’m _gay_. And you’re …well I don’t know what you are…” I’m stumbling and I know it. I’m a lot more eloquent when I’m writing stuff out.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I like being friends. A lot. But the flirting…I’m not really eager to go on with that. Not if you’re… Just messing around. Its fun, but I think that it should stop.”

I have shot brief looks at him the whole time, but can’t get my eyes to stay. So I’m looking at my wilting pot plant when he finally responds.

“Michael…yeah. I’m sorry. I should have been clearer.” He says, all regretful, but I’m already nodding.

“No, it’s ok. I get it. Flirting is fun.” I say quickly.

“But if you want me to stop, I will. If you’re not like…there…” now he’s sounding awkward. When I dart a glance at him, he’s rubbing his neck and frowning at the table in front of him.

But I’m feeling little unfocussed. “Where’s ‘there’?”

He looks at me, quizzical. “I mean, if you don’t want whatever’s between us to go further, I understand. I don’t like it, but I’ll respect it. I don’t want to lose our friendship over it.”

Now I’m leaving closer to the camera. Then I lean away again when I see how it makes my nose look huge.

“Hang on. You’re _straight_. I met you when you needed counselling for your divorce from your female _wife_.” I tell him, pointing an accusing finger.

He leans back a bit, and looks kind of annoyed. “I married her but it doesn’t mean I’m straight. It means I loved her at one point.”

Some voice in my head tells me to back off cos he’s getting pissed, but I ignore it. “So what then? Because you flirting with me is driving me nuts. Could you just be blunt here?”

He rolls his eyes at me, and suddenly all signs of his aggravation is gone. “Michael, I’m bi. I have been for as long as I remember.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“So that’s why you-“I trail off.

“Am flirting with you, yes. I _like_ you.”

And he looks so adorable, all cute sexy puppy dog, I tell you if he was standing in front of me I would kiss those perfect lips without a second thought. As it is, I just try not to breathe too heavily.

“Oh.” I say, stunned.

“And?” he asked tentatively.

“And what?” I asked, because I am the dimmest light bulb.

“Do you like me?”

I rub my face. “I cannot actually believe this. How can you even ask that? I have literally just said to you to stop flirting with me because I can’t take it if you’re not serious.”

“So that’s a yes?” he says, all perfect glinty smile.

I just laugh.

 _This man_.

-8-

It’s another month before I’m ready to meet him in person. Which suits us fine because he has a tour or something, and I sort of start thinking about him in terms of the word ‘boyfriend’.

 Is it obvious that I haven’t dated much since Ada?

There have been very brief flings and one night things, but nothing more than that. I barely had the head space to think about myself and then Ada, never mind a relationship.

So if I’m going to have a boyfriend, I have to think of Ada first.

But I’m still trying to get ahead of myself. It’s just a date.

A date.

I’m trying not to be a bag of nerves but I’m not doing very well at it. Hale Heart people. Hale fucking Heart.

I have to stop thinking about it or I’ll just turn around and leave.

Turns out, he lives in a neighbouring city, so it’s not a huge distance for us to meet. The only thing was, it couldn’t be a public place. This was a side effect of being famous; watching your every move because a bunch of people are paid to watch your every move, and get photographs. It made things a bit complicated. But not so complicated that I was going to say no to hale.

So on a Saturday that Ada was spending the day with her soccer team on a team building thing (for six year olds? Really?) I went to this tiny nowhere bistro that was all but on a farm. It was a bit of a drive, but I’d been there with Ada before because they had a pony you could ride if you paid five bucks.

I’m sitting at one of the low wooden tables, looking out of the window, over a small pasture which was home to one solitary pony, who was grazing boredly, and trying not to think about anything in particular.

A touch on my shoulder jolted me. And there he was, all shy smile and crazy blue eyes in caramel skin. I’m trying not to be star struck. I’m really _trying_.

He sits down across from me.

“Hey.” He says.

“Hey.” I reply, and then were just grinning at each other like idiots for a moments before I cough and turn away.

“It’s so weird, actually meeting you in person.” I say to cover the awkwardness. He chuckles and I can her he feels it too.

“Yeah. But I’m really glad though.” His voice is warm.

“How did you get here?” I ask, glancing out the front door to see if I see a car.

“My driver brought me.” He says, like that’s a thing normal people do.

My shyness melts a little and I shoot him my best teacher look. “A driver?”

He shrugs, like he can’t help it. “Not my fault. It was part of the deal. There’s also a sort of bodyguard type…” he leans closer to me but he’s pointing just outside the door, where I see another guy dressed in casual clothes, but he waves a little at us.

“Excuse me? A bodyguard?” I’m almost laughing.

He waves his hands at me. “Not a real bodyguard. He just looks out for press and stuff, helps me leave if I can’t do it on my own. His name is Eustace, and quite a nice guy actually.”

I lean back in my seat, shaking my head and laughing softly.

“I know it’s not ideal, as first dates go.” He says, and he’s rubbing his neck looking regretful.

“No, it’s ok. It’s just…surreal.” I say to him reassuringly. “I didn’t think this actually happened. In real life.”

“Well maybe not in real life, but in my life it does.”

He still looks rueful, and I can see his trademarked pretty boy-sort boy face looking at me from unusually long lashes. It makes me a little breathless. Suddenly he’s so real. He’s wearing a loose jacket, with a t-shirt underneath and jeans. Totally normal looking clothes, totally normal café and totally normal people. Except now there’s not screen between us and I’m struck by it, the unreality of the reality of meeting someone in person, when they’ve only been a collection of pixels before.

He sees my observing look and perks. “Everything ok?”

I shake off the daze a bit. “Yeah, it’s just…you know. You’re here. I’m here.”

He chuckles. “That’s what a date is, usually.”

“I meant that we’ve only met in digital before. It’s like some twisted online dating service.”

He laughs. “Yeah, except on those, we would have seen each other straight away. And probably would have skipped a lot of stuff.”

“Important stuff, though.” I grin.

“Yeah.” He smiles in return. “So? Is it living up to your standards? Cute enough for you?”

I gasp at him as he winks. “Don’t be an idiot. Like you don’t measure up to everyone’s standards.”

I don’t want to return the question, because right now, I’m feeling more and more like he’s the sparkling star fallen to earth, and I’m just a moon rock. But he leans forward trying to catch my eye.

“Hey, don’t I get to answer?” he asks me.

I humph and look away. “No.”

“Well, I’m going to. I think you’re cute.”

I put a hand over my mouth to hide my grin, but he can still see my blush. Tentatively he slides a hand forward, a lets his pinkie touch mine. I sigh out.

“Feel like ordering something?” I say, ignoring the tension, but keeping my hand where it is, just touching, a nexus point of contact.

“Do they serve wine?” he says mischievously.

I laugh.

 

 


End file.
